


Perfect

by Shinybug



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-14
Updated: 2012-04-14
Packaged: 2017-11-03 15:01:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/382651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shinybug/pseuds/Shinybug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I have never in my life," Arthur declares, grabbing the towel and pressing it roughly to Merlin's dripping wet face, "met anyone more ill-suited to the job of manservant than you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfect

*~*~*~*

It's late evening, after a day much like any other, with Arthur exhausted and worn around the eyes and Merlin biting his tongue on the usual things that should not ever be said to a prince, things regarding getting enough sleep, and taking care of one's royal self. The rain is falling softly, barely a touch on the mullioned glass windows, and Arthur's supper is a muddle of half-eaten savories more pushed around on the plate than consumed.

Merlin clears his throat. Arthur doesn't acknowledge him, so he does it again.

"Are you ill?" Arthur asks, sounding mildly annoyed, shoving at a bit of venison with his fork.

"I don't think so," Merlin replies, frowning.

Arthur casts a brief glance up at him, a quickly assessing look that rakes over Merlin's face and then away again dismissively. "I assume then that you have something inappropriate to say."

Merlin scowls. "Why do you assume it's going to be inappropriate?"

"Because I am eating privately, not having a conversation with you, and you are interrupting. Therefore, inappropriate."

"It certainly seems we're having a conversation," Merlin points out with some confusion.

Arthur lets out a long sigh between his teeth and puts his fork down on his plate, steepling his fingers before him on the table. "What do you want?"

Merlin gestures at his plate. "Is there something wrong with the food? I could go see what else the cooks have down there."

"It's fine," Arthur says quickly, taking up his fork again and spearing a bite of vegetables. Merlin notes he chews it without much interest, and once he's swallowed makes no move to eat more.

"Only, you haven't eaten very much tonight, or...lately at all, and I thought--"

"Merlin, go clean the fireplace."

"I did it already this morning," Merlin protests indignantly, glancing at what he considers a perfectly clean hearth, still cold, but the fire isn't quite as necessary since it's late spring.

"I couldn't tell," Arthur counters dryly. "If I couldn't tell a difference, it must be done again and properly. Flue as well."

Merlin narrows his eyes but bites his tongue, having learned in those first months to pick his battles wisely. He tries to ignore Arthur and his half-hearted supper, gathering his little broom and dustpan and sweeping with vigor.

Ten minutes later he is covered in a fine layer of gray ash, sneezing occasionally, but he has to admit the fireplace is actually much neater than it was. He's just never given much thought to the cleanliness of them before. They were dirty; they were _supposed_ to be dirty.

Something of this contemplation must show on his face, because Arthur shoves his plate away and says, "The cleaner the flue and the tidier the hearth, the better the fire can breathe, and the more effective it is at heating a room. A clogged fireplace is a waste of good firewood."

"Ah," replies Merlin, rubbing his sooty hands on his trousers, succeeding only in getting ash everywhere he touches and making a right mess of himself. He glances up to see Arthur watching him with open distaste.

"Build a new fire, then go wash yourself," Arthur orders, gesturing at the royal washbasin on the table in the corner.

"Sire?" Merlin gapes at him, blackened hands hanging loose at his sides.

"Well, I can't have you touching anything else in here when you're so filthy. You'll undo all of whatever pitiful measure of cleanliness you've managed to effect so far."

Keenly aware that Arthur's full attention has settled on him, having nothing else to occupy his noble self with, Merlin builds a fire in the hearth, gritting his teeth at Arthur's various instructions. He's not stacking the logs properly, there isn't enough kindling, it's going to be all smoke and no substance if he lights it that way. Once he finally gets the thing going to Arthur's satisfaction, he stands up on wobbly legs, rubbing his aching knees and thinking a small cushion might be a good idea for future endeavors.

Arthur points emphatically at the washbasin and Merlin goes, the back of his neck prickling as he feels Arthur watching him closely. The water is cold when he dips his hands in, gingerly scrubbing the worst of the soot from his skin. He is about to dry his hands on the towel next to the basin when Arthur commands, "Face too."

Merlin looks incredulously over his shoulder at him. "I'm hardly going to be touching your things with my face."

Inexplicably, Arthur's cheeks darken, though Merlin suspects it might be a trick of the firelight. "Wash your face, Merlin."

He knows an order when he hears one, though he thinks it's ridiculous, so he plunges his whole head into the basin, submerging until his nose is pressed to the bottom of the smooth bronze bowl. He comes up with hair sopping, flinging water everywhere and making an enormous mess which he finds completely worth it when he turns to see Arthur's expression of disgusted incredulity.

He rises from the table and stalks over to Merlin. "I have never in my life," Arthur declares, grabbing the towel and pressing it roughly to Merlin's dripping wet face, "met anyone more ill-suited to the job of manservant than you."

"Well, that's new and different," Merlin grumbles from behind the towel, taking it from Arthur and rubbing it over his dripping hair. "Am I acceptably clean now?"

"As compared to the pig-boy or the simple-minded stable hand? Just barely."

Merlin suppresses a deep sigh, folds the towel with exaggerated care, and sets it beside the basin. Arthur rolls his eyes.

"What next, my lord? Shall I trim the royal toenails?"

Arthur squints at him. "Don't be obsequious, Merlin. It doesn't suit you."

"I'm confused. Do you want me to be subservient or honest?"

"I want--" Arthur begins heatedly, then breaks off with startling abruptness. "I want more wine. And turn down my bed." He marches back to the table and flings himself into his chair, grabbing for the flagon of wine and his cup.

Merlin frowns and chews his lip as he turns down the blankets on the bed and smooths them out. He methodically plumps the five dozen pillows that Arthur insists on sleeping with, suddenly thinking about something. "What was your last manservant like?"

The echoing silence behind Merlin prompts him to look over his shoulder. Arthur is looking at him strangely, as though the subject were a forbidden one or at the very least unseemly to discuss. "Why?"

"Um," Merlin says, not really sure why he wants to know. "Just...was he perfectly humble and obedient? Did he know the perfect way to build a fire already or did you have to teach him?"

"Merlin, everyone except you knows the proper way to build a fire. And yes, he was perfect."

Merlin's fingers freeze on the last pillow. "Oh."

"Edward always had my breakfast ready when I awoke, and he used to press the neatest little folds into the cuffs of my tunics when they came back from the laundry. He could keep a sharp edge on my sword like I’ve never seen. He was a terribly pleasant conversationalist too, as well as a decent adviser, and he had an excellent listening ear. He had a voice like a lark and sang as sweetly as any bard. Edward was indispensable, really."

The soft, nostalgic tone in Arthur's voice curdles in Merlin's stomach like spoiled milk, and he swallows hard against the feeling. "If _Edward_ was so indispensable why isn't he here now?"

Arthur fiddles with the hilt of his dinner knife, looking pensive and regretful. "He left me for a kitchen maid and they ran off to the northern borders together to start a family. There was nothing to be done for it but to give them a plot of land and an old farmhouse and a few sheep as a wedding gift."

"How nice for him," Merlin replies faintly, unclenching his fingers from the pillow, dismayed to find he had crumpled it nearly beyond salvaging.

Arthur snorts, shaking his head. "Love makes a man do ridiculous and foolish things." He looks at Merlin in consideration. "That would explain a lot, actually. Are you in love too, Merlin?"

Merlin ignores him. "You think he should have stayed here as your manservant then?"

"He left me for a _kitchen maid_." Arthur seems to think this display of indignation explains all.

"I see. Why would he choose true love over lifelong subservience to royalty?" He wonders if Arthur will catch the irony in his tone or not.

"Exactly," Arthur says, snapping his fingers, and Merlin despairs. Then Arthur shrugs, seeming suddenly more humble than Merlin can remember ever seeing him. "But more than that, he was a close friend. I guess I expected..."

After a moment of silence, Merlin says, "Expected what?"

Arthur clears his throat, seeming to return to himself. "I expected you to be done with that already, Merlin. And not to have crushed my goose down pillows. You don't knead them like bread dough, idiot, you _fluff_ them. Allow the feathers to breathe."

"I suppose _Edward_ was a skilled fluffer," Merlin mutters to himself, _fluffing_ with vigor until Arthur grabs the pillow from him with a strangled noise, his face an alarming shade of pink.

"Edward had many skills," Arthur murmurs, gently massaging the life back into the pillow.

"So do I," Merlin shoots back, feeling the need to defend himself.

"Yes, and if I was ever in dire need of someone to daydream his way through the castle every day, you would doubtless be indispensable too and receive a higher wage," Arthur explains patiently. "I don't need you any more, you can go."

Merlin's jaw drops with a painful click and he actually presses his fist to his belly against a sudden clenching. "You're...sacking me? Again?"

Arthur's face is priceless, and the smack of his hand against Merlin's head is almost a relief. "No, you imbecile, I'm going to bed. I don't need you to help me with that."

"You could have fooled me," Merlin mutters, thinking of all the times Arthur insists on being dressed and undressed like an invalid, simply because he _can_.

"Yes, well," Arthur coughs awkwardly, "I am perfectly capable of tucking myself in tonight."

"Can I remind you of this later?"

"No."

The thing is, Merlin can't stop thinking about _Edward_. Sleep evades him until the small hours that night, his mind occupied with wondering about this mysterious, perfect manservant who Merlin can't ever hope to properly replace. And the thought rankles him, gnaws at his insides, even though he never really sought to accomplish his duties with anything more than the bare minimum of satisfaction. Certainly he never sought Arthur's approval, beyond a healthy desire to avoid the stocks.

Even as he tells himself this, as he attempts to shrug off the lingering specter of _Edward_ , Merlin knows he he lying to himself. About all of it.

*~*~*~*

"What was Edward like?" Merlin asks Gwen the next day as they both carry baskets of clean laundry to the chambers of their respective master and mistress.

Gwen pauses on the landing and Merlin stops with her, hoping the anxiousness he feels isn't written all over his face.

"Edward...Arthur's old servant?"

"He's old?" Merlin snatches at the idea perhaps a bit too eagerly.

Gwen gives him a funny look. "No, I meant old as in, 'came before you.' He's only a year or so older than Arthur, I think."

"Oh," Merlin says casually, and drops the subject like he never brought it up at all. They continue on their way.

On the next landing Gwen stops again, and Merlin wishes there weren't so many landings, or so many stairs to begin with.

"Why on earth are you asking about Edward?"

Merlin shrugs nonchalantly, or as much as he can while holding an overflowing basket of clothes. "Just curious, I suppose. Wondered whose shoes I'm expected to fill."

Gwen chuckles. "Well, I can't imagine you'll be able to do that easily. Edward stood nearly half-a-head taller than you and had remarkably large feet."

"Ah, an oaf then."

"Hardly." Gwen sighs a little, a sound Merlin recognizes from walking past the open door to the room where all the ladies of the castle spin, weave, and stitch together, gossiping the day away discussing all the fine young men of Camelot. He makes it a point not to go by there very often. Gwen has a strangely enraptured look on her face. "Edward was always chivalrous and gentle when I saw him. He used to carry my laundry for me when we were going the same way; he could carry his own load on one shoulder and my basket on his other without complaint."

Merlin looks down at his basket and then dubiously at Gwen's, rolling his shoulders in anticipation of pain.

"Oh! Not that I expect you to do the same, Merlin, never think that. You're very chivalrous, in your own way. Edward is just so much bigger than you, and stronger. Not that you aren't strong, of course! I mean, obviously you are. I think that basket is bigger than the one Edward used to carry," she says in a clear attempt to assuage Merlin's pride.

Merlin smiles weakly, appreciating her company perhaps a little less than he usually does. "I'm sure it is," he replies confidently. Or perhaps it only looks bigger because Merlin is so much _smaller_ than the mythical Edward, apparently.

Gwen beams at him, a bit too desperately. "Anyway, I think it's for the best that you aren't much like him. Arthur was nearly unlivable for months after Edward left, he even refused to take another manservant until the king commanded it be you. I would hate to think how he might act if you reminded him too much of Edward."

There it was again, that sick, bile in the throat feeling from before. "They were close, then?"

"Well," Gwen replies in a hushed, reluctant voice, knocking her basket into Merlin's as she leans in close. "It isn't my place to say. I mean, only Arthur knows for sure, right? And Edward isn't here to refute it."

"Urgh," Merlin agrees incoherently, setting his basket down on the landing and tripping unsteadily back down the stairs. "I just remembered I have...there's a thing..."

"Merlin?" Gwen calls after him, startled. "You can't just leave these here! Merlin!"

But since he is a terrible manservant, he leaves the basket of Arthur's laundry on the stairs and flees the castle as though Edward himself is chasing him. He doesn't stop until he finds himself in the lower city surrounded by people chattering in loud voices, not carefully modulated like those inside the castle and vaguely comforting in their brashness. He leans against a baker's stall to catch his breath and inhales the scent of warm bread and fried dough, ignoring the look the baker gives him.

In his mind's eye all he can see is a vague shape of a well-formed man whose ephemeral limbs are twined around Arthur's solid, familiar form. He squeezes his eyes shut against the image but it only serves to solidify it. It is sort of horrifying and tempting and Merlin wants to imagine _himself_ with Arthur but he _can't_. Try as he might, the idea of Edward just won't leave room for someone like Merlin to step in.

"Oi," the baker says finally, his booming voice cutting through Merlin's melancholy. "You gonna buy somethin' or what?"

Merlin straightens with a frown and looks at the array of loaves before him, then pulls the brass seal on a cord from within the neck of his tunic and shows it to the baker. "Yes. Prince Arthur requires several things, actually."

The baker's ruddy face pales as he stares at the royal seal and stammers, "Of course, my apologies, anything for the royal family."

Merlin feels a mean sense of satisfaction as he goes about choosing lots of things Arthur never asked for and purchasing them at a great discount. He may not be a perfect manservant but he still holds the office regardless of the broadness of his shoulders or his ability to sing like a lark or please Arthur in bed. Perhaps it's time he started taking pride in his job anyway.

*~*~*~*

"Maybe you can tell me, Merlin," Arthur begins as Merlin enters his bedchamber with a basket of bread, and Merlin knows then the conversation will be awkward, "why I caught Guinevere attempting to sneak my clean laundry into my rooms, when last I checked that was _your_ job, which resulted in spending a good five minutes listening to stammering excuses for why you weren't doing your job, the gist of which was that you suddenly had to _wash your hair_."

Merlin winces, scratching his dry head absently and wishing he had thought out the whole thing a bit better. He knows Gwen can't lie to save her life, though he has to appreciate her trying. Perhaps he should save a pastry for her as thanks. "I, um. Bought you bread." He holds out the enormous overflowing basket to show Arthur and then places it sheepishly on the table.

Arthur's face is an implacable mask and his crossed arms are a little intimidating. "You bought me bread," he echoes, blinking once as though having difficulty tracking the course of conversation.

"Yes? I remembered the baker puts out sticky buns on Tuesdays, so...I wanted to be sure to get some before they were gone." Merlin waits with held breath for Arthur's expression to waver, which it does after a moment, his gaze straying to the basket.

"I love sticky buns," Arthur mutters, poking at the basket with interest.

Merlin beams, taking his purchases out of the basket and laying everything out on the table. "Yes, I know. And then I decided that if you weren’t in the mood for sticky buns I should get some other things too. So here are fennel braids, and rye loaves, and these are lavender knots. The lavender came all the way from France, the baker said."

Arthur’s expression is dubious and ever-so-slightly alarmed, and he takes a tentative sniff of the knotted offering Merlin thrusts under his nose. “It smells very...French.”

Merlin grins, pleased with himself.

“I do have to ask though, Merlin. Did you buy everything the baker had for sale, or did you leave anything for the people of the lower town to eat?”

Merlin frowns, following Arthur’s gaze and taking in the feast of baked goods covering nearly every inch of the table, and for the first time wonders if perhaps he went a bit too far.

“Also, am I meant to eat all this myself? Because if so then I’m afraid I will have to cancel my appointments for the next several days.”

Arthur doesn’t sound particularly displeased, nevertheless Merlin feels a sort of shame uncurling in his stomach. “Of course not, don’t be ridiculous. I only...wanted to give you the first choice, before I go below-stairs and give the rest to the staff.”

The prince rocks back on his heels. “Ah, now I understand. So I should applaud your generosity in spending your own wages to buy bread for the servants, then. Well done, Merlin, I am impressed by your selflessness.” He bites into a sticky bun and chews thoughtfully while Merlin fidgets.

“Right, yes, my own wages. I thought it would be...nice.” Merlin had of course expected to be reimbursed for the purchase, as he always had been before on errands for Arthur, and it’s a rather staggering blow to his money purse but no more than he deserves for such foolishness, he supposes.

“Naturally I shall pay you back for the ones I keep.” Arthur wipes sticky-sweet hands on his immaculate linen shirt, while Merlin watches and winces, then separates out a modest amount of baked goods for himself. He holds out a few coins to Merlin, who pulls his own hands away.

“No, that’s. It’s not necessary, my lord. Sire. I mean, they’re a gift.” Merlin smiles lamely, feeling like an utter dolt and silently cursing Edward’s name. He quickly scoops up the remainder and fills the basket again. “I hope you enjoy them.”

Arthur tilts his head and frowns calculatingly. “I’m sure I will. Thank you.” He turns away, pauses, and turns back. “You’re a very strange person, Merlin.”

Merlin flushes red and darts away quickly, the basket of bread held tight to his chest.

*~*~*~*

The next day Merlin is still a jumble of confusion, full of anxious belly-flutterings when he thinks about Edward and the duties of a proper manservant. It’s not as though he asked for the job in the first place, he thinks petulantly, and then with the next thought feels guilty and awkward about wishing he didn’t have to wash Arthur’s clothes every day.

Because if he’s honest with himself, he doesn’t actually want a different job. What would he do, if not attend Arthur? He’s only been doing it for a short while, but already it feels like an established routine, like someone else’s shoes that were suddenly thrust upon his feet, but which he quickly grew accustomed to and now would feel naked without.

And really, he thinks as he scrubs grass stains from Arthur’s trousers, what would be the harm in trying to please Arthur? Perhaps the extravagance of sticky buns and lavender knots were a bit much, a well-meant blunder in a vague direction, but he could try a little harder at his basic duties because...

And there’s the heart of the issue, which he keeps shying away from at every opportunity: why does he care about pleasing Arthur? Certainly it would be nice not to be called ‘idiot’ every day, but why does he suddenly desire Arthur’s praise?

He thinks about the tone of Arthur’s voice when he talked about Edward, the hushed, softened edges of his words. Edward’s skill at conversing, his sage advice, his voice like lark song, such a _close_ friend...Merlin blinks at the sudden heat in his fingers, to find that he has rubbed an angry hole right through Arthur’s wet trousers, and steam is rising in a cloud from the fabric. His shoulders slump in dismay, and he wishes not for the first time that he knew a spell for mending.

*~*~*~*

“Merlin. What is this?”

Merlin looks up cautiously from his basket of laundry, pausing in his task of putting clean things in the wardrobe. Arthur is grasping the sleeve of one of his shirts, looking extremely put out.

“Um. Your second-best shirt?”

“Right. And why are there scorch marks on my second-best shirt?” Arthur’s narrowed eyes glitter dangerously.

“Well. See, the scullery maid was showing me how to use the hot iron. It was rather hotter than I expected.”

Arthur looks like he is sorting through several different things to say, each one more vexing than the last. “The scullery maid is seven years old, Merlin, and should have been in the kitchen. Why wasn’t the laundry maid doing it?”

Merlin shrugs one shoulder, focusing entirely too hard on folding Arthur’s nightdress. “I may have inadvertently insulted the laundry maid. She refuses to be in the same room as me.”

“I see. And I am somehow not surprised. But what were you trying to accomplish, at any rate? You’ve never bothered to iron my clothes before.”

“Your sleeves needed pleating.” He refuses to look Arthur in the eyes, instead shaking out a cloak with unnecessary vigor before hanging it with great care in the wardrobe.

There is silence for a long moment, and then Arthur clears his throat. Then he clears it again, and Merlin steals a quick glance at him. Arthur is looking vaguely heavenward, blinking and red-faced.

“Carry on then, Merlin. Just...let someone else use the iron next time, if you please.”

Arthur strides away quickly, mumbling something about his knights, and he gathers up his armor in an untidy pile on the way out the door, waving off Merlin’s offer of help. He looks back once through the doorway, his expression oddly intense and thoughtful.

Merlin sighs and leans on the wardrobe after the door has closed, his fingers lingering absently on the soft weave of a well-worn pair of trousers, feeling like an absolute girl. It isn’t quite the praise he’d been working for, but on the other hand Arthur hadn’t put him in the stocks for ruining his clothes. It’s clear that Merlin’s strengths do not lay in laundry. He will just have to keep trying until he finds something he _is_ good at.

*~*~*~*

Merlin’s one and only attempt at singing for Arthur goes similarly awry. In fact, there is nothing remotely lark-like about his voice, although a flock of geese comes to mind, and the court bard refuses to speak to Merlin ever again after he sees the state in which his borrowed lute is returned to him.

The incident is best forgotten by all parties involved.

*~*~*~*

Merlin decides that if there is one thing he can do without much difficulty, it’s to bring Arthur his breakfast on time, the way _Edward_ did. Merlin is no good at punctuality in general, but since he hasn’t been sleeping well lately anyway, and since he’s already up before dawn fretting about the situation with Arthur, he thinks he might as well do this one thing correctly.

He is so eager in fact that he stands in the kitchen impatiently waiting for the cook to wake up, and then waits impatiently some more for the cook to prepare the food, and ignores the exasperated glares from the bleary-eyed kitchen staff when he prompts them to hurry up. The scullery maid still won’t meet his eye as she slinks past him with a pot of water, no doubt because of the hot iron debacle, but he tries not to be dismayed. She is only seven, after all.

So it is that Merlin is carrying Arthur’s tray of breakfast delights up the stairs before most of the castle is even awake, and he feels quite pleased about it. The fluttering is back in his stomach again as he pauses outside Arthur’s door listening for signs that the prince is already awake.

He balances the tray on one hand as he enters the bedchamber, so he can adjust the angle of the pudding bowl in relation to the plate of meat pies, and it’s then at such an unexpectedly mundane moment that he suddenly understands why he wants so badly to please Arthur.

In shock he drops the tray onto the table, and meat pies, cutlery, and crockery go skittering everywhere with an enormous clatter. Arthur springs out of his bed from a sound sleep, clumsily grabbing his sword and brandishing it at a silver goblet that until recently had held his morning wine and now rolls to a stop against his foot.

Merlin is standing open-mouthed as a fish, unable to move from sheer horror. Arthur blinks several times at him, clearly trying to wake up enough to comprehend the situation, and after a moment flings his sword onto the bed and scrubs his face with his hands.

“Merlin. If I ask you what in the name of all that is holy is going on, are you able to give me a sensible answer, or will I be better off not asking?”

Merlin smiles weakly, feeling sick with horror and disappointment and love, _love_ of all things! He loves Arthur Pendragon, and it’s just _awful_. “I brought you breakfast?”

Arthur heaves a sigh and hitches up his sleeping trousers over his bare hips, and Merlin’s mouth waters at the sight and he realizes that it always has and he’s just been too cloth-headed to admit it to himself.

“No reasonable person is awake at this hour, Merlin.”

“You said you liked your breakfast to be here when you woke up, so...”

Arthur frowns. “I don’t recall ever saying I wanted to be awakened _by_ my breakfast, however.”

Merlin spurs himself into action, his mortification hot on his cheeks. He salvages what he can of the breakfast, setting Arthur’s table and refilling his goblet with hands that have always, always been clumsy no matter what he tries, feeling like the worst kind of idiot.

“What possessed you to go to such lengths?” Arthur asks gruffly, going to the wash basin and splashing water on his face.

“I was just attempting to fulfill my duties as your manservant,” Merlin replies, leaving the table more presentable and handing Arthur a towel. “Since you gave me a standard to live up to, I realized I’ve been inadequate.”

Arthur freezes with the towel over his face, then lowers it slowly, his expression unreadable. “What standard have I given you?”

Merlin takes the towel from him and hangs it beside the basin. “Edward.” He says the name with as little inflection as he can manage, but his voice still sounds petulant to his own ears.

Arthur’s face colors red as he stares at Merlin. “I never expected you to be like Edward. I didn’t even expect _Edward_ to be like Edward. I suppose I got used to the way he did things, but...in the end he didn’t want to be here, so it didn’t really matter how well he...pressed my cuffs.”

“Didn’t it?”

Arthur clears his throat, looking uncomfortable. “Look, Merlin. It’s been clear from the beginning that you didn’t want the position my father bestowed on you. I think it’s time we gave up the pretense. I release you to go your own way.”

“What?” Merlin asks, terribly confused.

“Your services are no longer required here,” Arthur elaborates, his jaw set and his shoulders back the way they are when talking to his father about unpleasant things. Merlin knows him well enough to know he’s upset.

“So you really are sacking me?” Merlin’s heart drops to his stomach. “But I only now just...I mean...I can do better!”

Arthur laughs a little bit, unhappily. “Believe me when I say Merlin, I don’t think you can.”

Merlin turns away desperately, clutching his hair, not sure what to do but unwilling to leave the room the way things stand between them. He grabs Arthur’s goblet from the breakfast table and drains half of it in one go.

“Merlin, _what_ are you doing?”

“Well, I figured since I’m no longer your servant, you can share your wine with me. Would you care for some?” Merlin, feeling a little wild, holds out the goblet to him.

Arthur spreads his arms helplessly. “The sun isn’t even up yet!” 

“Excellent, there will still be time for a hangover in the morning,” Merlin says sensibly, and Arthur appears to abandon any attempt at reason and swipes the goblet from his hands, finishing it off.

“Come on, let’s feast together,” Merlin suggests, and pulls up a spare chair to the table. After a moment Arthur joins him, shaking his head and pouring the wine again while Merlin attacks the bowl of fruit.

“I must still be asleep,” Arthur says conversationally, helping himself to a meat pie. “That’s the only explanation.”

“You must be right,” Merlin agrees. “So you’re having a lovely dream of feasting and conversation. Tell me all about Edward. I’m an excellent listener.”

“You’re a terrible listener, Merlin. You have the attention span of a magpie. Why do you care so much about Edward, anyway?”

Merlin shrugs, feeling like he has nothing left to lose. “You’re clearly in love with him, I thought you might like to talk about how he broke your heart.”

Arthur stares at him incredulously. “You must be joking.”

“I’m sure it will do you good to talk about it.”

“I don’t know how you got the impression that I’m a girl who enjoys gossip, or more importantly where you got the idea that I was _in love_ with my former manservant, but I can assure you--”

“But he was...pleating your cuffs, right? Sharpening your sword? Fluffing your pillows?”

Arthur goes red in the face again and drinks deeply from his wine goblet.

“I can fluff your pillows too, if that’s what you want,” Merlin assures him gently.

There is a moment where Merlin fears Arthur will choke to death on his wine, but eventually Arthur gets himself under control enough to croak out, “I can very well fluff my own fucking pillows if it comes to it, Merlin!”

Merlin is lost for a few beats in that stunning visual, but Arthur continues in a rasping, extremely agitated voice.

“I don’t need my cuffs pleated, Merlin. I don’t really care when you bring my breakfast, as long as it gets to me before lunch does. Your skill at tending my hearth is abominable, but as long as there is a fire there of some kind it doesn’t really matter how tidy it is. I don’t need the entire baker’s stall brought to me daily, despite how tasty those lavender knots were. I don’t want you to sing to me _ever again_.”

“Then what do you want from me, Arthur?” Merlin breaks in, demanding.

“I just want you to _want to be here_! That’s all I ever wanted. Edward was perfect, but he didn’t want to be here, he wanted his kitchen maid, and in the end I was alone. I misunderstood things, I was hurt.” Arthur swipes a hand over his face and sets his goblet down with a clatter. He looks away, and Merlin notices the light of dawn coming through the window now, illuminating his bleak expression in silver-gray.

“You’re a terrible manservant, Merlin, and you don’t want to be here either. I didn’t want to get too close,” Arthur continues in a softer voice, not looking at him.

“You didn’t want to misunderstand things,” Merlin whispers.

Arthur doesn’t reply, but he fiddles with his goblet for a minute and then scoots it toward Merlin, shooting him a brief, searching look.

Merlin takes the offered drink. “Arthur. I _do_ want to be here, you know. I would have left ages ago if I didn’t.”

Arthur furrows his brow. “You certainly don’t act like you enjoy your job.”

“Oh, I hate my job, why would I actually _want_ to scrub your dirty underwear and sweep your hearth and empty your chamberpot and clean your filthy armor and--”

“Thank you, Merlin, that’s adequate.”

Merlin shakes his head and grabs Arthur’s hand as the prince stands up to leave the table. “But I do want to be here.” Arthur looks dubious, so Merlin clarifies, “Here with _you_.”

Arthur catches his eye and holds it, his hand trembling in Merlin’s impertinent grasp, but he doesn’t pull away.

“And if that means I have to scrub your underwear to be close to you, then I’ll do it. I was serious about fluffing your pillows though. I _really_ want to fluff your pillows, Arthur.”

“Why? Because I’m the crown prince of Camelot?” Arthur’s wounded pride is clear, and Merlin begins to suspect that Edward’s motives in pleasing the prince had little to do with true friendship.

“Believe me, I like you in spite of your royal lineage,” Merlin assures him.

Arthur’s fingers twitch against Merlin’s, and he gives a small crooked smile. “I suppose I like you in spite of your terrible lack of any kind of skill. I’ve changed my mind. You may continue to wash my underwear. But please don’t sing to me, I couldn’t bear it--”

Merlin cuts him off by surging to his feet and yanking Arthur against him for a swift, sweet, ever so slightly imperfect kiss. Arthur goes still, then catches Merlin by the elbows and holds him there for another kiss, deeper and full of longing. Arthur breaks off gasping, and Merlin sees with joy a renewed hope shining in Arthur’s flushed face.

“Come on,” Merlin says, tugging Arthur toward the bed. “There is one thing I’m good at that I _know_ you won’t be disappointed with.”

“What’s that?” asks the crown prince of Camelot, following his manservant as docile as a lamb.

Merlin grabs a goose down pillow from the bed and waggles it at him suggestively, and Arthur is laughing when the pillow hits him in the face, followed by Merlin’s pants.

~end~


End file.
